


Tipping Point

by Renne



Category: Primeval
Genre: Flirting, M/M, Social Awkwardness, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-17
Updated: 2010-05-17
Packaged: 2017-10-09 12:40:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Renne/pseuds/Renne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Connor fidgets, his gaze sliding away from Becker's. 'I want you to teach me how to fire a gun.'</i> Connor is sick of the way the rest of the team shy away when he has a gun in his hand, so he gets proactive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tipping Point

'You want me to what?' Becker says incredulously.

Connor fidgets, his gaze sliding away from Becker's. 'I want you to teach me how to shoot a gun. Properly. Like. I can shoot a gun, right, when the situation calls for it, but I want to be able to do it properly so the other don't come over all... tense like they do when I pick one up in a "dire emergency",' Connor waves his hands, 'and I think they do because I don't – I mean, I haven't had any real experience and I thought if someone who knows how to use a gun properly teaches _me_ how to use a gun properly then at least the others won't be—'

'Scared you'll shoot one of them when you pick one up?'

Connor bristles at the sharp humour in Becker's tone. It had only happened the once. And it had been a tranquiliser dart anyway. God, he will never live that down. 'You're right, it's a stupid idea,' he says sullenly and heads for the door. Becker stops him with a hand on his arm.

'No. No, wait, Connor.' Becker's fingers tighten. 'I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that.' He tugs Connor back into the room and over until they're standing by an open locker of handguns. 'I'm – I'd be happy to teach you to shoot. When? And what would you like to learn to shoot?'

Connor's familiar enough with the captain by now not to be too surprised by this change of attitude, instead accepting Becker's change of heart at face value. His longing look at the rack of assault rifles and sub machine guns on the wall makes Becker snort a laugh, as he draws Connor's attention back to the locker in front of them. 'I'd start with something simple first,' Becker advises.

Reluctantly Connor looks over the handguns. 'I should probably learn how to shoot one of the tranquiliser guns.' Connor flicks a sheepish glance at Becker. 'You know what we're like about the creatures and live rounds.' After all the times he's been reprimanded, Connor's sure Becker has to be well versed with this.

Becker laughs again. 'I do.' He picks up several 9mm magazines. 'But I'm the one doing the teaching and I say you should learn to shoot a regular gun first. Then we can move on to tranquilisers. _Then_, if you still want, we could move onto something a little more...' and his gaze flicks to the rifles, 'impressive.'

It's enough to make Connor grin. 'You'd teach me all that?'

'For the team's safety?' Becker shrugs. 'I'll teach you anything you want to know if it meant we all stay alive a little bit longer.' The playful hint to his smile takes the sting out of his words. 'So when did you want to learn?'

Connor bounced on his toes. 'How about now?'

'Come on, then.' Becker cups Connor's elbow and guides him through armoury to the back stairs that lead down to the subbasement.

'But, I didn't – we don't—' Connor twists, looking back at the handguns. He points too, just in case Becker misinterprets his babble. How he could possibly do that, Connor doesn't know, because it's not like he's actually said anything that could be interpreted as... well. Anything.

'Here,' Becker slips his own sidearm out of his thigh holster and into Connor's hand as they head down the stairs. 'Lesson one: always treat a firearm like it's loaded. Oh, and it is,' he adds. 'Just in case you were wondering.'

As if it's chastisement, Connor holds the gun gingerly. 'No, come on,' Becker says, curving his hand over Connor's. 'You need to hold it firmly. You can't be scared of it.'

'I'm not – I'm not scared of it,' Connor protests with a nervous laugh, but he's a little distracted by Becker's warm hand around his and the captain's closeness. Becker smells like gun oil and sweat and _warm_ with the faintest hint of some manly deodorant. Christ, Connor thinks, pay attention to what you're doing, you're holding a live weapon, you idiot. Last thing he needs is to accidentally shoot someone – the captain – because he's not paying attention. That's what they're here to try and stop happening, after all.

Oblivious to Connor's distraction, Becker continues. 'Secondly: you should never point a gun at anything you are not willing to shoot.'

He moves away from Connor and Connor takes the opportunity to actually focus on what Becker's saying. 'Not willing to shoot,' he repeats. 'Right.' Then: 'Wait, you mean every time you've pointed—' He stops, thinking of the time Becker had trained his gun on the team under the orders of Christine Johnson and swallows.

'Yes. Well... mostly. But don't think of that.'

'Not thinking of it,' Connor echoes obediently.

'Thirdly,' Becker says. 'Keep your finger off the trigger until you're actually ready to shoot. That way you're not going to accidently pop someone – or some_thing_ – when you're not ready.'

'That happens?' Connor says a little wildly. He keeps on being distracted by Becker's closeness, which he's pretty sure is a) so far from right it's almost entirely wrong, b) probably classed as sexual harassment in the workplace, and c) God, Connor needs to focus on what he's actually doing otherwise Becker is going to think he's far too flaky for any kind of weapons training at all.

'You'd be surprised,' Becker says, except Connor really, really wouldn't be, because it sounds like exactly the stupid kind of thing he might do.

The range is dark and Becker reaches out to flick on the lights. Down the end of the concrete corridor Connor can see the target; white paper with a black silhouette of a person. He swallows. It's not like Connor has any issues with guns, but the thought of shooting _this_ one in front of Becker has Connor feeling a little squeamish, like if he fucks up, he fucks up good. If it was just any old gun, Connor's almost certain he wouldn't mind so much, but the weapon Becker has given him is his own and that makes all the difference to Connor.

'Lastly: make sure of your target,' Becker says, 'and make sure of what's behind it.' He leans against the division between the two booths, toying with a pair of earmuffs. 'You'd be surprised how far a bullet can penetrate when it hits the right part of the body.' There's a painful wryness in his tone that Connor doesn't understand. Is the implication that Becker shot someone and hurt someone else, or was he shot himself?

The thought of Becker being shot is far more immediate and reactionary; it makes him think of what happened to Cutter and what a bullet might do to flesh and bone. It unsettles him right to the stomach and he has to swallow hard. Perhaps this really is a bad idea. Shooting. Why doesn't Becker just teach him shooting, why does he have to _talk_ and make Connor think? He just... he wants to shoot things, he doesn't want to think.

As if he can sense Connor's hesitation (God, Connor really doesn't want to think of bullets penetrating human flesh, that's not wrong, okay?), Becker extends his hand. 'Would you like me to show you first?' he says gently.

Connor nods jerkily and it's with a weird sense of relief that he passes the gun over to Becker.

All thoughts of bullets destroying flesh are wiped completely from Connor's mind as Becker raises the gun and sights downrange. He pulls the trigger steadily, the spent casings pinging up into the air with each shot. Connor swallows. Oh Christ. This is Becker. Connor shouldn't be looking at Becker like this. But... there's something utterly _compelling_ about the captain firing his sidearm that Connor has never noticed before. It makes his mouth dry and his cheeks flush.

Becker presses a button and the silhouette whizzes up-range towards them. Connor doesn't know how many shots Becker fired, but all of them are grouped within the centre circle. 'And that,' Becker says with a faint, satisfied grin, 'is how it's done.'

Connor points to the bullet hole that is well away from the rest of the grouping. 'What about this one—ohh. I get it.' It's right through the centre of the silhouette's forehead. 'You're a really good shot.'

'I'm not bad,' Becker says in a modest, but mostly matter-of-fact tone. 'Shooting rounds at a stationary target on the range is a little different to shooting in live action, but there are few better places to learn.' He ejects the spent magazine and recharges the weapon, his movements smooth and economical. Connor might be a little mesmerised by his hands. Just a little.

Becker continues, 'Before we move on to another weapon – and by all means, that'll not be until you're proficient with _this_ one – I'm going to show you how to clean and maintain your weapon. There's no point in teaching you weapons handling if you're just going to fob it off for the security detail to take care of.'

'I don't – I – I mean, I didn't _want_ to, it's just—' Connor stammers, and then he realises there's something mischievous in the twitch of Becker's mouth. He stops, takes a deep breath and offers Becker a sunny smile. 'I would be happy to learn, if you're going to be teaching?'

'Of course I am,' Becker says as he offers the gun to Connor. 'Now it's your turn.'

Not meaning to take the weapon warily _again_, Connor still does so and once more it makes Becker press his hands over Connor's. 'Hold it firmly,' Becker repeats. 'Confidently. And remember what I said. Finger off the trigger 'til you're ready to shoot.' Connor nods. 'Now. Show me how you'd hold it if – _if_ – you were going to shoot.'

Connor takes a deep breath and raises the gun. Becker's gun. Dutifully he has his finger curved over the trigger guard.

'Not bad,' Becker says, 'but here...' And then he's all warm and close behind Connor, reaching around him to carefully adjust his posture and grip on the weapon. It's nothing inappropriate – God no, not Becker – but Connor closes his eyes a moment and takes a deep breath as Becker manipulates his grip, fingers warm and gentle as they slide against Connor's.

'How does that feel?'

Connor has to stop thinking about how close Becker is and start thinking how it feels to hold Becker's weapon (and there he goes, losing concentration again, because at heart Connor is twelve years old and _Jesus Christ_ he's completely aroused by Becker so close, oh it's wrong, it's so wrong, he tells himself over and over and over). 'Not bad,' he says, his voice a little high, but by somehow Becker doesn't seem to notice.

Even when Becker steps back he's still encroaching on Connor personal space which, Connor knows, is a lot smaller than everyone else's. Connor doesn't care.

The captain's voice takes on a lecturing tone as he explains the features of his gun; SIG Sauer P-something tactical, something about double action, single action and poundage on the trigger, and then something else about suppressors and threading. Connor _tries_ to pay attention, he honestly does, but there's a light in Becker's eyes and he's actually talking with his hands (which is just plain old weird because Connor is so used to seeing him with his hands either linked behind his back or holding some enormous gun) and Connor is completely and utterly entranced by how vital and alive Becker looks.

'...where it is more important to get rounds on target, because the rounds that don't hit don't mean anything. The more experience you have with a weapon the better, because training can—Connor, are you even _listening_ to me?'

Connor blinks and grins. 'You lost me at, uh, at double action,' he admits sheepishly, wondering why that sounds entirely pervy to his brain. Becker shakes his head, but he's laughing, so it's not like he's going to pull the plug on this thing. Not that Connor's worried he would at this stage. Becker is big on time investment, after all.

'I'm sorry,' Becker says, sounding genuinely contrite. 'Sometimes I do get a little carried away—'

'Oh, I don't mind,' Conner waves his hand.

It happens to be the hand holding the gun and Becker says, 'Whoa!' and even though Connor still doesn't have his finger on the trigger he reaches out to still Connor with one hand over his, the other curved around his elbow. 'A-ha,' Connor says. 'Ahh. Ha. Yes. Sorry about that. Always treat it like it's loaded, I do remember you saying that. Right.'

Becker's smile does weird, flip-floppy things to Connor's insides. 'Exactly.'

'So... can I shoot now?'

'By all means.'

Connor tries to hold the gun the way Becker had shown him, two handed and steady, lining up the sights. He looks to Becker for approval and Becker nods, stepping forward and settling the earmuffs he's holding over Connor's ears. His fingers graze against Connor's neck as he lowers his hands, and Connor closes his eyes for a moment, taking a deep, steadying breath. He's all a-tingle from an incidental touch... oh boy, he's in a lot of trouble here.

For a moment his brain wrestles between the task at hand and the thought of Becker's hands. It's all completely inappropriate, but eventually Connor manages to wrangle his brain back on track. Concentrating on the gun in his hands, Connor sights downrange as instructed.

It turns out there's something almost criminally satisfying about squeezing off a full magazine of bullets at a piece of paper. Connor doesn't often have those moments where he feels ultra-masculine, but this? This is most definitely one of them. No wonder Becker always looks so pleased after he's got a chance to shoot off a few rounds.

Connor's trembling with adrenaline as he pushes the muff off one of his ears and says excitedly, 'Can I see how I've done?' and as the silhouette is brought up-range he has to stop from hopping from foot to foot in eagerness. A quick look over at Becker's paper still hanging in the next range sobers him a little with the accuracy. It's far too easy to think of this as a game, but these are live rounds and live rounds are meant for killing. That tempers the adrenaline and satisfaction even further.

Turns out he's hit the paper five times. Four of them are scattered wide and far but one has landed inside the inner ring. Connor knows that was mostly luck but he can't help looking hopefully over at Becker. 'That's not bad, eh?'

Becker claps him manfully on the shoulder – not hard enough to bruise, but still it rattles his teeth – and nods. 'You still need plenty of practice, but that's not bad at all, Connor. You hit the target more times than I expected.' It's a backhanded compliment if ever Connor's heard one, but he doesn't even care. Becker just gave him credit for something! That's got to be a first, right?

Then Connor becomes aware that Becker's hand is still on his shoulder, fingers digging in gently but firmly. But his hand isn't just resting on Connor's shoulder. He's holding onto him. Tension skitters up Connor's spine, and he moistens his lips, resolutely keeping his eyes on the target. He can feel the press of Becker's thumb into muscle. It's a strange thing to focus on.

Once again, Becker's free hand closes over Connor's on the gun and Connor bites down on his lip. He's sure he's reading entirely too much into the sensual slide of Becker's fingers against his around the pistol's grip, but when he cuts a sideways glance at the captain he realises Becker is watching him, dark eyes intense. Connor flushes and nervously wets his lips again, and Becker's gaze drops to his mouth.

Flustered by the close attention and the tension that is now more than just tingle up his spine, he flinches when Becker steps forward, crowding him backwards, effectively trapping him in the triangle between the wall of the shooting booth, the bench and Becker's own body. The soft thump of his head against the wall knocks the earmuff back into place and his heartbeat echoes loudly in his ears.

Connor inhales sharply when he feels Becker's knee nudging up between his, then has to bite back a moan when Becker's thigh slides up further and in closer, bringing their hips together. He feels Becker's other hand lightly trail down his side, nothing more than the brush of fingertips snagging on fabric. A light touch like that is enough to make Connor curse all his layers of clothing, right up until Becker's fingers reach his thigh and oh god, if skinny jeans aren't the best fashion choice _ever_ for being felt up by the head of your security division, Connor doesn't know what is. His body stirs in response and he groans low in his throat.

Closing his eyes, Connor feels the press of Becker's warm, firm body as he leans in closer. Becker's breath ghosts against his lips and his brain alternates between _oh god, oh god, oh god_ and _how is this even real?_ and _touch him, go on, reach out and _touch_ him, for god's sake_ as he anticipates... something, anything. The thoughts are a high-pitched whine right through the middle of his brain. Through sheer willpower alone, he manages to unfold his fingers from their death grip on the edge of the bench top. He's about to reach for Becker when Becker suddenly pulls away.

Connor's eyes spring open. What had just happened...?

The captain is looking away, taut and alert as he steps back from Connor, sliding his gun from Connor's fingers. In a smooth move he picks up one of the spare magazines and reloads the weapon before holstering it.

The look he flicks Connor – still standing frozen and wedged in the corner of the shooting booth – is impatient, before he sighs and reaches out, flicking the muff away from Connor's ear. Suddenly Connor realises the whine he can hear isn't his brain's anticipation, but the ADD alarm sounding throughout the ARC. He curses the anomaly's appalling timing as Becker quickly scuffs the spent casings on the floor into the groove at the base of the booths with the toe of his boot.

Oh, right. Even with an impending dinosaur event, Captain Hottie McCapable over there is all over making sure OH&amp;S disasters aren't waiting to happen.

'C'mon,' Becker says, 'we have to go.'

As Becker ducks back through the doorway Connor sags, closing his eyes and banging his head against the wall a couple of times in frustration.


End file.
